Why don't you hate me?
by Brydums
Summary: Sherlock finally admits to John why he is so heartless, and it is not quite the story John expected. John's mind works quicker than usual and Sherlock is baffled at his reaction to this shocking discovery. SLASH, dont like dont read k plus for boy kissing


Sherlock Holmes sighed. It was two am and he was supposed to be sleeping. He rolled over in his four poster bed, sighing once more. He was also supposed to be a high functioning sociopathic genius who was far too intelligent to care about such things.

So why was he now lying sleepless with only one thing on his mind? Seemingly, this was the one mystery he couldn't solve.

Sighing again, Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted sleep once more. However, he was eventually forced to give in to insomnia and go and do some experiments.

A few hours later and there were no new experiments to start, no crimes to solve and Sherlock was bored. And once again he had no gun, so the wall was no target. John Watson came downstairs to find his flatmate flopped in his favourite armchair, with one hand strapped up in bandages.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" he asked, incredulous, looking toward the damaged hand.

"Oh this?" he raised said hand, "Punched the wall. Nothing to worry about, already set the bones, doesn't even hurt." Shaking his head, John went to sit opposite.

After a few minutes awkward silence, a thought crossed John's mind, a thought that regularly crossed his mind, but usually never got voiced as the pair were usually doing something stupidly dangerous at the time when said thought crossed John's mind.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?" Sherlock was clearly glad of anything to distract him from his boredom, and sat up to study John and work out what he was going to say.

"Why don't you-" John was cut off as Sherlock had deduced everything necessary.

"Because caring hurts." John was shocked that the mad haired genius had given in so quickly without even one lie. Sherlock read as much on his face.

"You wanted to know and you weren't prepared to accept anything but the truth and I thought I would save time and a pointless argument by simply telling you." At this he leapt up and swept out of the room, his blue dressing gown billowing behind him. John heard his footsteps retreating up the stairs and only didn't follow immediately because he was still shocked that he had had the truth out of his flatmate.

By the time he had gathered his wits enough to follow Sherlock, John ensured that he was greeted with a rather odd sight in the consulting detective's bedroom. He walked in to see said detective sitting on his bed, head in his hands, looking like he was holding back tears.

"Why does it always hurt John? Caring, love, they're meant to make you feel warm, and happy, so why do they hurt so much?"

John looked down at his friend. If the great Sherlock Holmes, who even knows how gays wear their underwear, didn't know this, how could he.

"I don't know Sherlock, I just don't know."

Sighing once more, Sherlock got up and slumped back into his usual seat, in front of his rubbish tv.

John followed a few moments after.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Sherlock pulled himself up and into the experiment crowded kitchen.

"Tea John?" the shorter man nodded and Sherlock handed him a steaming mug. He leaned back against the counter, sipping his own drink.

"I never cared, not since I was a child. My brother and I hardly ever saw our mother, she was rich, and had more important things to attend to than her sons. Mycroft, being the perfect first born child," Sherlock spat out the words with resentment, "seemed to always be 'invited to see mummy' all the time he was praised for being so perfect, so good, so clever. Of course, I was always there in the background, thin, scrawny little Sherlock." He set his mug down, hard, on the counter, hands shaking. "It hurt, John. It hurt that I was always second best, always told, 'look at your brother, why can't you be more like him?' of course, because perfect Mycroft could do no ill." Sherlock moved to sit back down again.

"So I learnt quickly that it was best not to care, that way, I was a rock, an island. Untouchable. Of course, though, something had to happen. My father left." Sherlock looked down at his hands, shaking, "It hurt so, so much. Because he had cared about me, if not much, and I about him. I was only eight. At that point I stopped caring about everything and anything. But of course, clever as I was, I couldn't stop caring entirely." He smiled slightly at a memory, looking up.

"When I was twelve I had my first proper crush, and naturally, he didn't like me back. He was popular, captain of all the sports teams. And when he found out that I was gay, and liked him no less, he was not too happy, to say the least. He and his cronies beat me to within an inch of my life, I was in hospital for months. So after that I decided never again to care about anything, because it just ends badly."

Looking down at his feet, Sherlock sighed once more, he had become quite fond of that expression it seems. He looked at John sitting opposite him, he knew he hadn't expected that, and looked so sorry, so sympathetic.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I shouldn-"

"Its fine John, I don't mind. After all, I don't care." Even as he spoke the words he knew they would convince no one, especially John.

"But you do. I don't know what it is, but you care about it and it's hurting you."

"I knew that wouldn't fool you." Sherlock muttered to himself.

"I know you Sherlock, and I want to help. I can tell something's wrong, by now you would normally be yelling at the tv, but you're just sort of….glazed over.

Once more Sherlock sighed. _'I ought to sigh less, other people might notice'_ he thought as he turned to face John.

"it doesn't matter John, I'm a good actor." Sherlock replied, "Anyway, its not like anyone cares." He added to himself.

"It matters to me."

"If you must know, and I really doubt you want to…" he took a deep breath and looked away again, "I think I'm in love."

'_wow. Certainly didn't expect _that' John thought.

"And now you're trying to work out who it is, and you've already begun narrowing it down. Don't. Just let it alone John, I'll get over it."

"No you won't." Sherlock turned around abruptly.

"What makes you say that?" he asked sharply, even though he already knew.

"Because in order to get over someone you need to be away from them for a considerable amount of time."

'Damn' Sherlock thought.

"Well John, your brain is working remarkably quickly today, I had hoped it would take you a little longer to work it out though, as you obviously have." Sherlock got up and walked out of the room, pausing in the doorway.

"I'm so sorry John." He said before sprinting up the stairs to his bedroom. John sighed and quietly followed him. The sight that greeted him was something he could never have imagined. Sherlock Holmes was lying on his bed, facing the wall, silently crying.

Of course he knew his flatmate had walked into the room, but he didn't turn around, telling himself not to hope. He pulled his knees into an even tighter ball, his body racked with suppressed sobs. He was certain his flatmate would want to move out now, be disgusted, hurt. He thought he would react badly, not want to know him anymore.

"I'm sorry John, I'm so, so, so sorry. I…I understand if you want to move out….or if you hate me now….I…I just want you to know, I'm sorry." He mumbled between sobs. Sherlock's voice sounded so flat, deflated, like he'd given up.

So John sat down behind him and Sherlock stiffened, knowing it was too good to be true, that it was not John coming to say he was fine with it.

"Sherlock," he spoke softly, placing one hand on the younger man's shoulder, "you don't need to be sorry. I could never hate you, or want to move out, and certainly not because of this." The mad haired detective slowly turned around, confused.

He looked John in the eye, his tear stained face showing hurt, and confusion, and hope.

"You….you're…you're not…..angry….or..or, or disgusted?" the sound of disbelief in his voice broke John's heart to know that he was the cause.

"Of course I'm not, why would I be?"

"But…but i…"

"Yeah you like me, so what?...weeelllllll…..more than so what.." now it was John's turn to be nervous. 'I can fight in a war without flinching but I can't string together one sentence.' He thought, scratching his head.

Luckily for John at this point Sherlock's mind reading powers had returned. Along with his smirk. He sat up and captured John's lips in a sweet, gentle caring kiss. Unfortunately, John was still lost in his thoughts and so stiffened with surprise. And before he could respond Sherlock was at the doorway, blushing and saying he would just leave now.

"Oh no you don't, you idiot." John leapt up and spun a surprised dectective around, pulling his head down into a passionate kiss. He shoved the shorter man into the wall, tangling his figures in those irresistible curls. He pulled slightly, making Sherlock moan. John seized the moment and shoved his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock slid his hands around John, letting one rest on his hip as he twirled his fingures in the hair at the nape of his neck. Now it was John's turn to moan. He had had no idea kissing could be this good!

At this point Sherlock realized what was happening, and thinking it too good to be true, he pulled back, dragging John onto the bed.

"John, nice as that was, you're not gay." As much as it pained him to say it, he knew it was the truth.

"Are you sure about that, cus I'm not." He looked Sherlock in the eye, begging him to believe it. Seeing that he was convincing no one, he decided upon a different approach. He grabbed the taller man's hands, looking him in the eye with his best 'serious conversation' look.

"Sherlock Holmes, most brilliant man I know, a real hero-no this is my moment-genius consulting detective who has saved my life numerous times, will you be my boyfriend?"

Sherlock must have sensed he was telling the truth because at this he leapt into the shorter man's arms, clinging to him like his life depended on it.

"Yes, yes oh god yes!"

Both men smiling, they pulled apart and looked at each other.

"You, John Watson, are an excellent kisser." Sherlock grinned at his boyfriend.

"Not as good as you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
